The Tale of Drosselmeyer
by Earth Star
Summary: Even writers have their own story to tell.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Princess Tutu or the characters and I don't want to make any profit from writing this story._

**The Tale of Drosselmeyer**

Once upon a time, I was afraid to write stories. Yes, me! I laugh at the ignorance of my younger self. The first time that one of my stores came to life I was horrified at the idea. To think that I could control fate with just a mere pen, ink and my own two hands.

I couldn't stop writing, it was in my blood, but my problem was that I tried to write happy stories. No one would read them. "They're too boring," people would tell me. "Nothing happens to the character." My father even had the audacity to rip apart my story in front of me. He told me I should give up this foolish dream of being a writer and insisted that I take up real work.

I would hear this over and over as I wrote new stories. One after another they would be rejected. I wanted to scream. "I can't write anything else!" I would tell my wife. "If I'm not careful, people's lives could be ruined by my writing." My wife humoured me. I knew she didn't believe in my ability to bring stories to life. However, she was the only person that encouraged me to continued writing. She was such a caring, foolish woman. Looking back at it now, she was a drama queen as well. An amusing woman to say the least.

I believed I loved her, or at least I tolerated her enough to have a son. It was so long ago, my memory is fuzzy.

I am grateful to my late wife, for she was the person that helped me see my true power. My wife was the twist in my own story. How lovely.

She became ill with an incurable disease. She was so weak, she could barely sit up in her bed. The doctor said it was only a matter of time before she left this world.

I was clueless at what to do. I believe I was enraged at the world as well for forcing this misfortune onto me, but as I say my memory of that period of my life is a blur.

I do recall sitting at my wife's bedside, holding her cold hand. Then she turned to me. She was breathing heavily. "I don't want to be forgotten," she whispered to me. "If I have to die, I wish I could die in a way that will be memorable, that people will talk about for years." She fell asleep from exhaustion shortly after.

Her words haunted me and twisted in my mind. I went to my writing desk and picked up my pen. My hand shook.

_I can't do it! _My conscience argued. _I swore to never do this!_

_But, _a voice from the dark corner of my mind argued, _My wife is going to die_ _anyway. Isn't granting her last wish my duty as her husband?_

Before I knew it, my pen was moving with a will of its own. I began to write a story of my wife, a beautiful dancer, who would dance her last dance. From behind me, my wife suddenly stood up. I could tell she wasn't herself. Her eyes held no life in them. She was caught in a daze. I knew then she was under my control. My own puppet to play with. I wrote her to dance.

The words flowed from my pen as she tapped, spun and twirled in front of me. I was in awe. She was graceful. She waved her arms like they were wings. She was no longer my simple housewife. I had turned her into an elegant swan, willing to do my bidding. Then, my pen took over, as many authors will tell you will happen, and my wife headed outside. I watched from my window as my wife continued to dance and twirl in the middle of the street. I had taken my paper and pen to the window ledge with me so I could continue my tale, but still watch her.

My neighbors saw and called out to her, asking what she was doing. Of course she didn't answer. She continued her dance and began to dance harder and faster. I heard scared whispers of her being under a witch's spell. Some of the townsfolk began to approach her to stop her, but my wife dance so fast and fierce they couldn't catch her. She continued to dance until I finally felt it was time to put an end to it.

I wrote that her heart gave out. My wife collapsed like a broken doll.

My neighbors broke out of their trance and rushed to her side, But it was too late. My wife was dead. The town talked of her last dying dance for months. To this day, I believe there is an old ghost story of my wife's spirit being seen dancing on the streets when the moon is full.

That was my first real story. I felt liberated, like a lion that was freed from his chains. It was all so clear now. Tragedies stay in a person's memories far longer than any silly happily ever after. You're less likely to forget a woman who danced to her death then a normal woman who had simply died in her sleep.

My stories improved and people actually read them. Some of the townsfolk did point out how recent deaths resembled my stories, but most assumed it was merely a coincidence.

It wasn't enough. I wanted to know more about my power and began to research. I learned how I wasn't the only spinner and that I could fully harness my power by going to the old oak tree.

Once I did that, my golden years started. I wrote more and more stories. There were times I didn't leave my house for months. I was having too much fun writing another story to add to my collection. It didn't take long for the stories to weave their way into the lives of the townsfolk. I merged their strings of fate with my own tales. I had taken over the town and created my own world inside it. Only a few noticed, my son being one of them. I don't know why he was so upset. I made the town more interesting and it barely bothered anyone. The town was in my total control. If I wanted people to accept my laws of reality, it happened. Most people in the town couldn't even tell the difference between reality and my own little tales that I had created for them to act out.

It was glorious. My perfect little world. I never wanted it to end. Of course, everyone dies eventually, but would I let that ruin my creation and destroy my world that I worked so hard to create? Of course not! I refused to let death stop me and made plans to fix this problem. I had to write. I needed to write.

Then, I began to write my masterpiece. The Prince and the Raven. It was so tragic and twisted. A knight dies when he was barely mentioned. A prince shattered his own heart. A princess declared her love only for her to vanish in a speck of light. I enjoyed every word of it. But then, the bookmen interfered. You know who had gathered them? My own son! My own flesh and blood had convinced them that I had to be stopped.

He was such a disappointment to me. The coward turned his back to me as my hands were chopped off. I suppose next I should be saying that my son got a happy ending when he married the girl he loved and blah, blah, blah.

Little did they know that I had found a way to write beyond the grave. The town still lived in my little storybook world without even knowing.

I suppose I should have taken revenge upon my son for his betrayal, but I couldn't be bothered with a such a trivial thing. I had too much to do and to plan for my story. I had everything in its place. All I needed now was to find the perfect playing piece to move my story. A being I could mold and play with however I pleased.

Then I will have a delicious tragic story. It will be one you'll never forget. Don't you agree?


End file.
